Life in the Service
by ItsumademoOtaku
Summary: Series revolving around the worklives of Mustang's gang. Everybody's IC - you gotta love the poor saps as they are. Slight (big fat honking) RoyxRiza hints, but only when humorous. Alcohol & slight lewdness apply to rating. We have achieved plot.
1. A Close Shave

_Yay, I finally made improvements to this chapter. Hope it makes more sense now. Enjoyand please review. Just remember, you flame me I call Roy down on you...equivalent exchange, that is._ _I KNOW my stuff isn't THAT bad._ :-D**  
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A Close Shave...**

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It was another bright, sunny day in early spring. Such warm, clear weather was unusual for this time of year in Central, First Lieutenant Breda had been told. It being his first such season out of Eastern, he was in no position to contest it. He ambled along the perimeter of Central base, enjoying the morning's faint breeze against his newly-showered skin and wondering if the company would have an outdoors assignment for the day.

He sauntered casually through the main doors of the administration building, winking at the secretary who admonished him. There were more important things to worry about than being a few minutes behind schedule.

There was a note on the company message board in the staff room. It read:

_To my lovely company: please refrain from shaving at the break table... Do it when you get up in the morning._

_ -Hugs and kisses, your favorite Colonel_

Breda (who _had_ shaved, as a matter of fact) had only come to see if Hawkeye had ripped down his swimsuit-girl picture yet, but now he paused at the little yellow note pinned jauntily between the model's breasts.

_P.S. If security finds you in three months in a warehouse riddled with bullet holes, I'm telling headquarters it's not my fault...and I wouldn't really blame Hawkeye either._

"She wouldn't really do that to me," he muttered, and unpinned the note. A flap unfolded from the bottom.

_P.P.S.__ Is that April? I hadn't bothered to look ahead, but now I think I might._

"Wrong for the third time today," Breda said aloud, and went to sign in. He glanced at his watch, up to the wall clock that was running ten minutes faster, and sighed. "And it's only eight twenty-three—thirty-three—whatever. Shame on your pompousness, Mustang."

There was still an open slot on the sign-in sheet. Lieutenant Hawkeye hadn't arrived yet. That _was_ unusual—she came closer than anyone in the company to never being late. Breda grinned to himself and adjusted May, who had been separated from the rest of his "Women in the Service" calendar. Resuming his casual amble, he exited the tiny, unkempt break room and made for the office.

He wasn't going to let the Colonel show off in front of his little sexy Lieutenant today. Since she hadn't yet arrived, they were going to have a nice, quiet, man-to-man chat about body maintenance and individual needs.

"I was tipped off that there's going to be an inspection today," the Colonel said from his desk before Breda had even gotten all the way through the door. "I don't want you looking as black and blue as that uniform you've not quite managed to button up all the way…so I suggest you take down that picture."

"I'll bet you I can run faster than your little bodyguard," Breda replied gruffly.

"You've never seen her run, have you?"

"She's never actually beaten me up, and even _you_ can't say that much." Hawkeye really wasn't that violent a person…but she had her moments. Breda had always been careful to steer clear.

"I think you may get a pounding when she discovers that everyone is now aware of her brief—but successful, in my opinion—modeling career." Mustang slouched in his chair and raised his eyes to the ceiling, looking a little morose.

"She probably only took the job because she knew _you'd_ be buying one, Colonel," Second Lieutenant Havoc interjected, sucking on the end of his unlit cigarette. Mustang had forbidden him recently from lighting up in doors, claiming the smell made him queasy…but Havoc seemed to always have one in his mouth anyway.

"If only," Mustang sighed. He and the Lieutenant had been fighting again—she'd slapped him full across the face yesterday, and now that Breda was looking he could see just the smallest hint of a bruise.

"Anyway," he said, brandishing the note he'd found, "Can I ask you to notice, my darling commander, if I appear to have shaved before coming to work today?"

Mustang squinted at him for a moment, climbed over his desk and seized Breda's jaw in his hand. "By God…I think you have. Congratulations. Should we throw you a bar mitzvah?"

Falman, whose head had been buried in a newspaper at his own station, issued a rare laugh before going back to his reading.

"I'll ask you again at lunch," Breda continued, prying the other man's hand away, a tic working faintly in his forehead. "Would you care to place money on whether or not I'll need to tidy up a bit?"

Mustang shrugged, scrambled back off his desk and began to tidy his mussed paperwork. "My request merely extended so far as that you stop doing it at the break table. I set down a sandwich yesterday only to find it had acquired very odd mayonnaise on the bottom. I doubt used shaving cream sits well on the stomach."

"Wait, what sandwich?" Fury asked. "You never bring in lunch."

He shrugged again. "I didn't say it was _my _sandwich."

Fury digested this, and his face went slowly green. He moaned. "I thought Havoc had taken those bites out of it. _Colonel…_"

"Well, where else am I supposed to do it?" Breda pressed, not wanting to get off-subject. "Falman always manages to claim the bathroom—"

"There's two."

"—And I am not even going to _try_ using the women's. You're just waiting for me to get my ass kicked, aren't you?"

"Damn, foiled again," Mustang answered mock-woefully. "You could go downstairs to the locker rooms."

"They're always packed at lunch, too."

Mustang scowled a little, obviously bored with the conversation. "I can have Lieutenant Hawkeye police your shaving habits, if you'd rather."

"Would that be so terrible?" Falman asked, snickering from behind the protection of the daily news.

_So maybe it wouldn't…but I know better than to push _that_ issue_, Breda thought. Mustang had long ago established his claim over the female in question. Hawkeye actually seemed less aware of this than anyone…which really was cute.

"Hell, I'd give her permission to handle the razor, too," Mustang added.

Some days, that dry wit of his was downright annoying. Breda knew when to turn in his hand. "Fine, _fine,_ I'll just go find an alleyway or something."

"You'd probably do a better job without a mirror, anyway."

Breda glared at his commander; Mustang returned it.

"I still think that it's funny," Havoc said, snickering along with Falman. "I mean, you criticize Breda and Falman when you probably couldn't even _grow_ a convincing goatee."

Falman laughed again, and lowered his paper. "That's true. You don't have any notion of how much a pain a heavy beard is, do you Colonel?"

"_Excuse me_?"

"Have you had _your_ bar mitzvah yet?" Fury asked, joining in with the others' mounting chuckles.

"Same to you, shorty!"

"My, my, such a temper that one has," Havoc said chidingly. "Seriously, Roy old boy, how often do _you_ put a blade to that baby-soft face of yours?"

"Classified, that is."

"Every what, two or three days? Even _I _have to shave more often than that," Fury said.

"We really need to stop talking about this," Mustang said, his voice low and dangerous. "And you still haven't buttoned your jacket, Breda!"

"What is going on in here?" The voice of Lieutenant Hawkeye arrived just miniscule microseconds before her carefully aloof face did. "I apologize for being so late…I was going to go sign in but I thought I heard yelling."

Breda smirked. "I bet even the lady beats you."

"I what?"

"Tell us, Riza, how often do you shave?" Havoc, who was leaned so far back in his chair that it would hardly matter if he got knocked out of it, chewed his cigarette a little more. He paused as Riza opened her mouth to reply, and corrected himself. "Your legs, I mean. Gotta keep gender differences in mind."

She made a rare face, and made to go off down the hallway. "I don't."

"See, I've got someone beat at l—" Roy cut himself off, now looking a little green, too, and began to dig through his desk for his calendar. The same thought had just occurred to Breda. Maybe you couldn't tell from the calendar photo, but…

Fury very quietly slipped under his desk.

"She's gonna kill me," Breda whimpered softly.

Nobody moved until the door swung open again except Falman, who lifted his paper back up in front of his face.

Lieutenant Hawkeye stalked up to the Colonel's desk and very swiftly stuffed a piece of balled up, glossy paper into Breda's large mouth. "Don't look so disgusted, the lot of you. I _wax_."

All the men except Havoc—for some reason—cringed.

"Oh," Mustang said, sounding a bit relieved nonetheless.

* * *

The next morning, a new calendar page had appeared on the company's message board—this one from the men's version. Another note had been pinned in a conveniently dignity-saving spot. Breda stared in a quiet kind of horror at it.

_Lt. Hawkeye wins times ten thousand. The Colonel offers to buy her lunch…but promises not to inspect the status of her hair._

_…At least as long as she doesn't want him to._


	2. Bigger Fish to Fry

_If any of you are asking "where's the plot?" my answer is: "Wherever the beef went." Maybe sometime, eventually, I'll cook up some hamburgers. But not right now…right now I'm just trying to be stupid and humorous. Eventually I may find my beloved plot bunnies. But to be honest, I don't want the RAs to find out I was keeping pets.

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_**Bigger Fish to Fry

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The door opened and Schezska took—by the Colonel's watch—a good hundred and forty-five seconds to wrestle the mail cart inside. "Why does nobody _help_ me with this thing?" she pleaded vainly. The others shrugged, and with a withered look the young woman began to pass out huge bundles.

There'd been some trouble recently with various things…the dead fish in the plumbing, for instance. Mustang had no idea who'd thought it would be funny, but really it had only made everybody mad because they couldn't use the bathrooms, sinks or water fountains until the system was flushed a week later. He was about ready to pull on his gloves and make the culprit slightly crispy. Or extra crispy, to their preference.

Well, his preference, anyway.

All of this trouble, though, involved paperwork. _Sheaves_ of it. He'd only been able to tell that Schezska had arrived with the mail because he recognized the sounds of her effort to get it through the door.

Schezska balanced two bundles of papers, about a dozen folders, an entire clipboard of notes and an armful of letters on top of his already-teetering stacks. The whole ensemble invariably crashed, and the Colonel groaned and buried his face in his hands. The bookworm blushed a little, but steeled herself and gestured to it as if _he_ was the one that had caused the collapse.

"Nothing's going to get accomplished if all you do is complain about it," Hawkeye told him sternly, peeking briefly over her own mound of chores. A sea of eyes (or eyebrows, in Falman's case) was on him now.

"Do you always have to treat me like a child?" He asked, probably a little more harshly than needed. He was having a bad day, and he wasn't particularly happy with the Lieutenant either. His face still hurt from when she'd slapped him.

She snorted softly and turned back to her work.

"Are you going to help me clean this up?" Mustang turned back to Schezska, who was fussing with the now-empty mail cart.

"Do you ever help me get this thing through the door?" she countered, and proceeded back toward said door. Yet another woman intent on resisting his every request! Mustang said something indistinct in the back of his throat and looked wearily down at his desk, which despite recent events was _still_ not clear.

"I vote we take a break to read our fan mail," Havoc said cheerfully, waving three envelopes that were all set on a decidedly pink scheme.

The Colonel looked back down at the mess on the floor, began to sift through it for his own letters. For once, Havoc was right. Best to get those out of the way. He counted aloud as he gathered them. "Two, four, six…twelve…twenty-seven…forty-three…"

"You stopped picking up envelopes thirty seconds ago, Sir," Fury pointed out. He was neatly tearing his own apart with a sword-shaped letter opener. "And we all know it's highly unlikely they're all love letters. Considering the amount of paperwork you have."

"Well, I don't know," Mustang answered, and thought _It isn't you I'm trying to make jealous_. "March is my month, after all. I'm sure there are women ogling our lovely Men-of-the-Service calendars all across town—"

A paperweight flew from the general direction that contained Havoc, Breda and Hawkeye, and glanced off his already-present bruise. Taking the hint, he shut up and starting tearing apart the envelopes. After a few minutes, he shoved what remained of his paperwork off onto the floor and separated the letters into five sections—from the higher-ups, from the lower-downs, business from outside headquarters, love letters from civilians, and love letters from military women.

The latter two were strangely depleted…and as he shuffled through them he muttered, "None of these are particularly appealing, either. Two of the gals are _married_ and admitting as much. Do they think I'm some kind of sicko with absolutely no regard for the fact that most other men could probably beat me in a fistfight?"

Hawkeye certainly had no trouble with _that_, and she wasn't even a man.

"What was that, Colonel?"

"Nothing, nothing…" How depressing. Sometimes being an alchemist in the military had down sides.

* * *

A few minutes passed. Much paper was shuffled. A few pens scrambled across various ink-receiving documents, replying to mailed prompts. Everyone soon became absorbed enough in themselves to want to boast.

"Hey, my sister's gonna have a baby!" Fury flashed a great big grin at the others. "She and her husband are moving back to Central and they wanted to invite the company to visit after the baby's born."

"That could be a nice little field trip," Havoc said. There was something odd about his voice.

"What's wrong with you?" Breda asked.

"Nothing," Havoc said quickly. Knowing just by her comrades voice that his words were far from the truth, Hawkeye glanced up to watch what followed.

"It's not nothing. Let me see." Before Havoc got a chance to respond, Breda snatched the offending letter out of his hand. His lips moved just slightly as he read…laboriously. Reading didn't come naturally to Breda.

"Someone wants _you_ to go all the way back to Eastern for a _date_? _That's_ a field trip. Is this addressed properly?"

"Why wouldn't someone be that much in love with me?" Havoc replied tersely, glaring at where the Colonel had just a moment ago been standing. That was odd…had he knelt back down on the floor to gether the rest of his paperwork? "Just because I have to use matches and I wasn't in the war doesn't mean I'm not perfectly lovable. I mean, at least my _hair stays combed_ and I can go outside on a sunny day and _not_ get a uniform tanand I can _clean up after myself_."

"Amen to that," Hawkeye muttered.

The area around Mustang's desk had gotten strangely quiet…but nobody else had noticed. He didn't answer her pointed little comment…and he never let her get away with her veiled insults inchallenged.

"So what did _your _mail say, Breda?" Fury asked. "I'd bet fifty cens the only woman that ever writes to you is your mommy."

"Cough up," Breda told him sourly. "As a matter of fact, my girl from back home sent me one today. It's right there, if you don't believe me."

Hawkeye, skeptical, leaned over and inspected the wide, curly writing. "You wrote this yourself, Second Lieutenant."

"S—shut up!"

Everyone except Hawkeye and Breda burst into convulsive laughter. Well, it was kind of funny. Breda had probably been expecting someone would bet he couldn't pick up girls.

"Well what about _you_?" Breda asked, and snatched at Hawkeye's stack. "Bill, bill, department newsletter, bill—hell, don't you have any _friends_?"

_Practically wins_, she thought to herself. "Do you seriously think I would give them my work address? That's asking for trouble."

"Well it proves she's not getting love letters," Falman said, and shrugged.

The others looked at him, "Huh?" written all over their faces.

Falman squinted in puzzlement at the sudden appearance of the ink marks, smirked a little to himself. Hawkeye turned to stare at Breda, Fury and Havoc, who'd all been leaned up against the exterior wall of the office. Could you do that with alchemy?

Falman, continued, "If someone who didn't know her was trying to contact her, the easiest way would be through work. I mean, she practically lives here."

Hawkeye picked up another paperweight and launched it from her fist. It impacted male cheekbone with a deeply satisfying _thak_. Fury, meanwhile, was poking Breda's arm and demanding 50 cens in return for trying to trick him.

The Colonel's voice finally spoke up. "Well, it's true no one would want to date you, with that attitude. And your uniform just looks strange because your breasts are so big and you really do need a haircut and—"

"That's not what you were saying this morning!" Riza somehow managed to raise her voice over the sounds of uncontained exuberance from her co-workers. Her reply made them laugh harder, and so it became impossible to say anything more without getting closer. When she came around the side of his desk, though, all she saw was a little round hole in the floor, over the men's showers.

She was suddenly aware of the smell of decaying seafood.

"I guess that's true, isn't it?" The door from the hallway burst open, and the Colonel's form appeared through it. He was holding a bucket of bait. "But before I start hitting on you more today—to _everyone's_ enjoyment—I have another big fish I'd like to fry."

Falman was trying very hard to appear as if he didn't notice that his uniform was smoking.

"I'll wait."

Everyone who'd finally caught the pun (in other words, everybody except Breda) was now staring at the Warrant Officer. Hawkeye glanced down at the letters on Mustang's desk. One, in unfamiliar script, was asking why the company's lockers seemed to smell funny these days.

"It's great how sometimes you lot forget I can do other things with alchemy besides start fires. Although it _is_ my favorite," Mustang continued, grinning just slightly. "Care to 'fess up?"

"Not particularly," Falman said, shrugging and fidgeting.

_Foom_.

Havoc, as always practically lying on the floor in his chair, fell out of it. Breda was knocked backwards into the wall. Fury, who'd ducked back under his desk, wasn't hit by the shock wave at all.

Havoc struggled upright and inspected the warrant officer. "Nice work, Colonel. I enjoyed that you let him keep his boxers…I imagine we don't want to offend the lady and all."

Riza snorted, and walked up to the now twitching, soot-covered Falman. There was a single piece of paper on the man's desk. It was a bill from the market for fifty pounds of mackerel.

"Care to tell us _why_, at least, before I report this and let _you_ do all the paperwork?" Mustang asked.

Falman's shoulders twitched again in a nervy approximation of a shrug. "I needed _something_ to do. Why the writing on the poor boy's faces?"

"Because they should have at least _smelled_ something!"

"I don't suppose it'll be washing off anytime soon, will it?" Havoc asked pleadingly, noticing Breda's face at last and realizing dejectedly that "Huh?" was written onto his own as well. "I was going to take some time off and go back to Eastern…"

"Talk to me in a week."

Havoc groaned. "I _hate_ you alchemists."

Hawkeye shook her head and brushed past the Colonel in the doorway. She padded slowly down to the women's locker room, and only then let loose with what she couldn't possibly have in the presence of her comrades. She learned later, via Fury, that her chosen private was not a terribly insulated place, and with the help of another well-placed hole (the Colonel was going to _pay _for that one) every officer on the floor heard her laughing anyway.


	3. 200 Proof Predicament

_For those of you who could care less about the other guys…this is a mostly Roy/Riza chapter. Why? Because I couldn't help myself. In defense of Roy-ai fans everywhere: If the Colonel's an ass, I'll kiss him anyway. Take that Torii :-P_

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**200-Proof Predicament**

"Cold?"

Lieutenant Hawkeye glanced up from a large mug of tea, the steam of it drifting across her glacial features. Now that the Colonel was looking closely, he noticed the corner of a white paper tissue just visible in her left nostril.

"No," she answered.

"Flu?"

"Would I have come to work?"

"Yes."

Hawkeye paused, considering, and shrugged. "You got me there. But no…whatever Fury's been brewing today has me sick to my stomach."

Mustang twisted his face into an expression of puzzlement, for a moment, until the cogwheels in his brain started turning again. His Lieutenant was such a conundrum—you had to figure out what she was thinking almost constantly. Difficult women had never been his strength…but for some strange reason it made her all the more enticing.

Or maybe it was just the fact that they could rank on the rest of the company through nothing more than the most obscure references and nobody else understood.

"You really hate coffee, don't you?"

"Just the smell of it makes me nauseous."

Right to the point…as always. "Hence the nasal devices?"  
Her hand shot up to her nose. "You can see them?"

"I used that trick _constantly_ while the plumbing was being evacuated to get rid of that fish smell," Mustang assured her. "Hey…what happened to my calendar page?"

"You haven't been to the staffroom in a while, have you?"

"After that incident with the shaving cream I swore to steer clear."

"I never thanked you for dealing with that, by the way. Breda makes such a mess with everything, but that stuff topped the list."

"But what happened to the picture?"

She'd probably thrown it away. That was so like her, too. She wouldn't even care much for a mostly-nude photo of _him_.

She shrugged. "I took it home before one of the boys got disgusted enough to take it down."

Mustang stopped, having already prepared to spout some witty, accusative joke. But then, she always managed to kill those, too. _Argh__, my libido_. "You'll help them down my ego but refuse to let that little secret of yours provide everyone some badly-yearned-for entertainment?"

"Call me the Great Equalizer."

Wasn't that what they called that new type of bomb? "A weapon?"

"Does that not make sense?"

He thought about it some more, and realized that the Lieutenant had been cleaning her guns at the table. Hell, she'd named her _dog_ after a type of gun. But there was no way he was going to indicate how shortsighted he'd just been. "You never told me whether or not you'd like me to buy you lunch," he tried instead.

Her stony face, softened somewhat by the steam from her massive mug, closed back up again. In a mocking, singsong voice she replied, "Ooh, look at that, the Lieutenant's out for a promotion…fifty cens says she doesn't really mean it…fifty cens says they're going to his place…one hundred cens that the whole thing is just a plot to make us lose all our money—that's not really a bet!"

"Is that _really_ why you act so cold to me all the time?"

"Yes."

He was losing this conversation, and badly. This wasn't his most pathetic attempt at trying to woo the Lieutenant (as sad as that was), but she was leaving him exactly _no_ room for wit. And she _made sense_, which was the worst part.

Co-workers shouldn't date. But on the other hand…there were plenty of opportunities to break away and not be co-workers. He needed an intelligent argument. What actually came out of his mouth was: "Oh, come _on_, Lieutenant."

She sighed and sipped at her gigantic mug. Skeptical, she said, "Hundreds, thousands of women who would do your every bidding…and you want _me._"

"Well, yeah."

"_Why?_"

"I have to have a reason?"

"Yes!"

That was the problem with career women…they didn't want to hear the truth. Was it because he had ample opportunity to stare at her and decide that she was exactly his type? Yes. There wasn't really another good reason.

On the other hand, this _was_ giving his brain some good exercise. If only there were other parts that could get some exercise, too.

Except he knew she wasn't _nearly_ that easy.

A small random particle struck the 'genius' sector of his brain. "Haven't we been over this before?"

"Have we? Please, refresh me."

"I don't think you could handle your tea _and_ me at the same time."

"I can handle more than you think," she countered. It was a joke, or as close as she ever came to them, but the double-meaning was obvious enough to both of them.

"But you can't remember why I'd want you to?"

"I'm trying to see if _you_ do."

Mustang grinned, snatched her mug (which was actually an open-top stein) from her hands and took a big gulp. After wincing from the heat, he noticed a distinctly non-tea flavor in the brew. "Because otherwise I could write you up for taking a nip from the liquor stash on the job."

"_Your_ stash," she pointed out, and held her hands out expectantly. "It's not nearly as spiked as the 'coffee' Fury's been making, either."

"Which I always said was a ridiculous idea. Vodka and coffee cancel each other out, especially when you really don't have a _clue_ about fine poisons…" He took another swig, enjoying the flavor. Yes, this was definitely something from his squirrel-hole. "If it weren't for the fact that the instant crap they buy is so weak it would be, anyway."

"I kind of thought that was the point."

"Lunch?" He asked again. "_That's _my point. Everyone else is busy…We can sneak out. I'll take you down to the bar, if you want."

"And catch me off my guard?"

"Well, yeah."

Hawkeye stood, reclaimed her tea and proceeded to efficiently polish it off. "If it's a challenge you're after, you're on."

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Meanwhile, back in the company's shared office, Breda, Fury, Havoc and a still-tender Falman gathered to play a little poker.

"Who's got the chips?" Breda asked, pulling out a somewhat battered deck of hole-punched casino cards.

"They were in my locker," Falman answered, favoring one still-pink arm as he pulled a chair into the circle around Fury's desk. "You guys saw how badly the Colonel gutted the thing. They were a puddle of melted plastic."

"Know when your new uniforms are coming in?" Havoc asked.

"They said it was going to be at least two weeks."

The others winced.

"You know, I think the Colonel is really starting to enjoy chewing you out every day for not coming to work in uniform," Fury said, with a hint of disapproval in his voice. "It's not like it's entirely your fault, after all. Though I suppose it's a distraction from Breda—"

"Who's holding the cards, here?" Their slightly-in-need-of-a-shave dealer shuffled the deck loudly.

"Right." Falman shrugged. "He'd be royally pissed if he found out I was taking a break from all that paperwork, too…but I hear Hawkeye's been stealing from his alcohol stash and I think that might keep him distracted for a while."

"Really?" Fury sighed with relief. If Mustang was going after Hawkeye he would assume she'd taken _all_ of what was missing. He hadn't been stupid enough to put some in the commander's coffee, too, and give the whole game away (little did he know that the Colonel had other informants)

"'Course, knowing the two of them she might not actually be stealing it," Havoc pointed out, settling down into his chair and pulling out his box of matches. "Jessica from downstairs said she saw them headed off on their lunch breaks…_together_. I believe that's _my_ money you have in your pockets."

The other three grumbled unkind things and surrendered up wads of cash. "You'll probably lose it in the game anyway," one of them said.

"How much you wanna bet I won't?"

"Isn't that like double-bluffing?" Fury asked.

"What the hell is double-bluffing?" Havoc asked.

Fury stopped. After all, this was _Havoc_ he was talking to. "Never mind."

Breda snorted. "No bet. You lose your money like the rest of us. What're we using for chips?"

"I may have a solution," Falman said, and nodded his head towards Mustang's desk.

Havoc chuckled and counted his money. "I think I may like."

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_An hour later…_

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"What, if I may ask, went on in here?" The Colonel stood open-mouthed in the half-assembled doorway that was (just barely) his company's collective office. Two of the walls were riddled with bullet holes, and most of the room's contents had been scattered over the half-ripped-up carpeting. If his two holes in the floor hadn't been bad enough…

He looked back at Lieutenant Hawkeye, who seemed as though she didn't trust herself to speak.

"Where've you been, C'lonel? Havoc sauntered up from an indeterminate location down the hall, hands behind his back and a smoking cigarette protruding from his lips.

"Put that out," Mustang said, snatched the roll and stomped it into a preexisting soot stain of Falman's.

"Aww, that wa' my last rite, ya know."

"Last rite? What the _hell—_?"

"As pertain'ng to—"

"Allow me," Hawkeye said, and walked into the room. She knelt next to a scattering of little round objects, picked a few up and held them out. "You four were in here playing poker again, but you didn't have any chips because the Colonel melted them along with everything else in Falman's locker. So you were using these instead."

"Those are my collector's lids," Mustang said, and looked again to Havoc, who shrugged clumsily. "I had them all stacked according to vintage, too! And what were you doing in my bottom drawer anyway?"

"You have forty-seven of them," the Lieutenant continued, "but they probably needed a few more to round things out, so they uncapped a few of the bottles. Knowing our company, the vapors were probably just all too enticing. How much have you had to drink, Second Lieutenant?"

"Well, between us…"

Hawkeye had already found the two empty fifths and held them up.

"My two hundred proof whiskey," Roy groaned, clenching his hands as if longing to put them around Havoc's throat. "You _idiots_, that's not the kind of stuff you want to chug in the middle of the day—"

"Top stuff, C'lonel," Havoc said gleefully, and hiccoughed. "I didn' have nearl' as mumuch as Falllman. They ain' getting' him t' talk today."

Hawkeye began to gather the bottle caps. "I'm guessing Breda shot first, at you, judging by the height of the holes in the wall. You jumped up and dropped all your winnings—Were you cheating?—grabbed your weapon and started firing back. At this point Fury must have seized Breda, seeing as how the bullet holes start to climb up toward the ceiling, and started to drag him out the door…at which point you went for the shotgun and took that chunk out of the door."

"Tha's abou' right," Havoc said, sounding impressed and monumentally stupid at the same time. "He wa' mad't me 'cause I won the bet tha' you two'd be hightailin' it outta here as soon as noone wa'looking."

The Colonel stared at his underling, felt his left eye start to twitch. Hawkeye took the much more direct approach and lugged one of the heavy glass bottles at Havoc, who wasn't much in the presence of mind to duck.

"Ow, what'd'ya do that forrr?"

"It takes more than lunch for anyone to get 'tail' off of me," she said roughly. She steamed her way forward and shoved the other bottle and a small mound of collectable caps into her commander's hands. "You'd better take everything home before whoever's making Breda squeal figures out where they got their supply."

"It's more than an armful, if you'd like to help," Mustang called as she went hurriedly to the break room.

"Di' you?" Havoc asked, hiccoughing again."

"What?"

"Ge' any."

I might have been worth messing with their minds, Mustang though, and grinned.

"You di,' dint you?"

Mustang continued to grin.

"I won' tell," Havoc said.

The Colonel shrugged, pulled his black overcoat off its hook and went to his desk. He began piling the contents of his bottom drawer into his makeshift tote, as Havoc staggered over and continued to press him. "Aw, c'mon Roy ol' boy, ya c'n say so. 'S'not like I'd be sururprised or nuthin.'"

The barely-absent Hawkeye returned, tucking a small flask of something into the inside pocket of her jacket. "I figure my tea mug is safe enough here. What is it, Havoc?"

Havoc imitated his superior's grin. "He won't tell me if you guys did it or not."

She stopped dead in the middle of the room and stared. Then, very slowly, she began to blush.

Havoc giggled. "I _knew_ it!"

"In your _dreams_, the both of you!" Hawkeye rolled her eyes, turned on her heel, and paced straight back out of the office. A few seconds later, she was back. "Oh, and by the way, I just heard from Scheszka that the four of you boys are having your weapons privileges suspended until further notice…'Further notice' being dependent on whether or not you get to keep your _jobs_."

Havoc whimpered.

Mustang shrugged, knotted up his coat and made for the door as well. "Don't ask me. _I_ was on my break."

-------------------------------------------

_Message to readers: If you're getting this stuff on authoralert…I would really like some feedback (good, bad, suggestions etc.); please post reviews._

_BTW: _

_-The 'Great Equalizer' I referred to in this chapter is the A-bomb. The reference was a bit obscure, sorry._

_-For anyone who doesn't know this, 200-proof whiskey is 100 percent alcohol. A 'fifth' is one-fifth of a gallon, or about 750 mL. Two fifths of pure ethyl alcohol is a LOT for four people over the course of an hour. If it weren't for artistic license Havoc and the others would be puking their guts out. Which would have been funny too, probably. Oh well._

_-Yes, I realize there are a bunch of questions I haven't answered. All will eventually be told in further chapters. Hopefully I'll have a computer at Xmas to work with…have to leave mine at the dorms. Thank you USB memory sticks._

_-Sorry for the weird breaks. FFnet's line break thing was acting wonky_


	4. When Exposure is a Bad Thing

_Ok, sorry…I keep using Bruda Breda by accident. Need to kick that old habit. Stupid disagreeing fansubs. Have fixed now…and maybe I'll do a little expansion on the first two chapters after finals._

_Point from last chapter, answering a review: There is a hayatte model of gun and a hayatte plane…the dog may in fact be named after the plane since many of the characters are also that way, but I just figured it was the gun 'cause, you know, it's Riza. Or maybe she named him after the gun and the creators of the show named him after the plane ('cause nobody in FMA knows what a plane IS), or maybe the fact that it's both has a whole lot to do with everything. Whoa, I just confused myself._

_o.O_

* * *

**When Exposure is a _Bad_ Thing**

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* * *

_

"I kept _telling_ you they wouldn't care if we skipped town," Breda said dismissively, folding up the message from headquarters and tossing it over his shoulder.

"Don't litter," Fury said, still suspicious, and caught the wadded up telegraph strip. He'd been the vote against catching the next train to Western—but he'd been outspoken and (as often happened in these situations) had come along to make sure Breda and Falman didn't get into even more trouble than they usually did. "Hold on, did you even read this?"

"Yes!"

"It says the four of us are to be arrested and returned to Central immediately…ooh, can't we just go back?"

"Because we already wasted the money on those tickets, and I'm not leaving until I get down to the beach and sufficiently tanned," Falman answered.

"You'll have a newspaper-shaped one," Fury countered, but Breda interrupted him.

"Okay, so I didn't read it. But there's more of a military presence in Eastern…I figured they'd catch Havoc first and we won't be bothered for at least a couple of days."

Second Lieutenant Havoc had gone to Eastern to answer that strange love letter. Fury couldn't stop from picturing how ecstatic the man had been, and from being vaguely frightened by the prospect. "The Colonel is gonna kill us," he reminded them. That was his best card to play…he hadn't lost with it once.

"He's got enough in his hands at the moment," Breda answered with a snicker.

"The expression is 'on his hands,'" Fury corrected automatically.

"And I said _in_."

"I believe you're referring to our magnanimous Lieutenant Hawkeye?" Falman asked.

"I thought about what might happen if they got the office to themselves and decided to install a little camera," Breda said slyly. "While we were back at headquarters to give testimony."

"Had me install it, you mean," Fury put in sourly. "I almost got caught, too. If I'd known that was _why_—"

"Oh come off it man, aren't you even curious?"

"Curious, but not enough to own the proof!"

Falman stopped at the vacationer's booth as they passed it by. "Beach first, or hotel? I don't particularly want to be lugging a bunch of changes of clothes through the sand, but it's a bit early to check in."

"We can at least drop our bags at the desk," Breda said. "And we need somewhere to get changed, too. Any objections, Fury?"

The addressed man sighed. Really, though, he felt helpless. "I suppose that's the best plan. But, you know, I'm beginning to think that when I talk to the conduct review panel I'm going to tell them you kidnapped me."

* * *

Further down the platform, another pair of soldiers climbed off with weekend bags in hand. These, however, were in uniform.

"Are you sure this is where they went?" Lieutenant Hawkeye asked, peering around with her sharp eyes. It was going to be much harder to spot Fury, Breda and Falman if they were lacking of the blue outfits she was so used to seeing them in. She'd never had to do it before.

"Relax," Her commander told her, giving the area a brief scan as to conclude that they were the only ones from his division in earshot. "Western is an easy train ride, and those dopes lost so much of their money betting with Havoc that this is probably the only place they could afford. It's relatively small, too, and those three stick out like a sore thumb in any crowd. But this place also happens to be a nice vacation spot."

"This whole MIA situation has you completely and utterly worried for your underlings, doesn't it?" She asked dryly. "I think actually they'd prefer to be caught by the military's headhunters."

"Since when do I let them get away with anything? Falman, especially—he never finished all that paperwork for that stupid fish prank." Mustang replied, and began to saunter off in the direction of the main station. Hawkeye sighed and followed him.

Even just at arriving at the hotel they ran into trouble. The place where they had been planning to stay only had one room available. The clerk apologized profusely for the situation, and Hawkeye found this unnecessary display annoying in the extreme. It was unlikely that the other hotels even had _one_ room, another clerk explained. There was some sort of convention in town, and the crowds were phenomenal. "We had someone come in just before you arrived that was so desperate for a place to stay that they actually paid us in a cash advance."

Luckily, the room that _was_ available was a suite. Happy that she'd have some room to herself, at least, Hawkeye led the way with the keys. When they got there, however, it became obvious that it was the _honeymoon_ suite. This contributed mightily to Hawkeye's mood.

The Colonel, however, seemed quite amused. "Will you relax?" He chided her, for the second time. "Have a sense of humor about something for once in your life. Nobody here knows us. Once we get out of these uniforms," —he grunted, struggling to remove his jacket— "nobody will know where we work. The down time will do us both some good."

"We are here on duty," she reminded him.

He was already digging through his bag for his towel. "Lieutenant, we're in Western. There's no such thing as _on duty_ here. C'mon, put on that lovely swimsuit of yours and let's hit the beach."

"You're going to be the death of my career, you know that?"

"Oh, I don't mind."

* * *

"They're going to fire us for sure," Fury was saying, even as he trailed the others in trying to stake out a good spot to lay down their towels, umbrellas, large picnic basket filled with beer, books, tanning oil, and other various objects intended to attract cute girls.

The "borrowed" Black Hyatt was still looking mightily unhappy from being stuffed in a suitcase on the train. Fury was cuddling the mutt as much as was allowed, moaning about how Hawkeye was surely royally pissed. Breda, usually the one most apt to run away at the sight of the Lieutenant's guns, only shrugged. "There is only a certain degree to which you can painfully kill someone…I'm sure I've probably already passed that point."

"What about live torture?" Falman asked.

"Considering Hawkeye's choice of weaponry, I'd factor in lead poisoning."

"That's an awfully big assumption," Falman argued. "I mean, she might have a secret dungeon full of iron maidens and spiked chairs and thumbscrews that we just don't know about."

"What I wouldn't give to see _her_ in a dominatrix outfit," Breda sighed.

"That wasn't what I meant,"

"Well, if we accept all of this baloney as even a remote possibility, it's still unlikely _you'd_ ever get to see such an outfit," Fury said, scratching Black Hayatte's ears again. "She seems to have the commander pretty well wrapped around her thumb these days."

"That only proves my point," Breda said.

"You had a point?"

"Well, considering that we borrowed her dog," Falman put in, having realized Breda's logic, "it's likely that she would be the one most looking forward to our return…but she'd never come after us here…wouldn't have the gall to parade herself around in a swimsuit anywhere near us. And you stick out around here if you're not wearing one."

"At least the dog will get excited if he senses she's here," Fury said, and hugged Black Hayatte again. "Poor puppy…I hope she doesn't still shoot at him."

"Last time I dropped something off at her apartment it looked devoid of bullet holes," Breda reassured him.

"Unlike what remains of our office."

"Oh, shut up," Breda said. He paused, set down the beer and surveyed the crowd. There were a few couples around, but mostly the area consisted of singles and parades of bikini-wielding females. "Here, this spot looks good. Let's get ready to pick up some chicks, boys."

"I think I see a volleyball game going on," Falman said. "You can have your girls, but I want something to do."

"I'll keep an eye on him," Fury said.

They settled in with their towels as Breda tried (unsuccessfully) to attract said girls. Fury took out his book and idly petted the dog, which was getting much more attention than he was.

The crowd eventually drifted off, and Black Hayatte, bored, became extremely focused on a couple further up the beach. The dog had probably never seen anything like them before, so Fury, soon absorbed in his mystery again, thought nothing of it.

Breda patted the dog roughly and laughed. "To dogs humans must behave so strangely. You don't really get much messing around like that in the animal kingdom; you go off, you do it, you come back."

"Well, they say humans invented romance," Fury said vaguely, on automatic. Someone was getting murdered on this page, and his brain was working overtime trying to logic out a culprit.

"Is what they're doing considered romantic?"

Fury surrendered to the temptation and looked up. "Perhaps a little…boastful," he said, nonplussed. You saw stuff like it in the park all the time…it wasn't like they were actually being offensive or anything.

"If it weren't for the fact that that kind of thing usually requires getting into an actual _relationship_ I'd be jealous," Breda said.

"Lieutenant, I really am trying to read," Fury replied. If he'd been listening, he might have found what happened next to be amusing.

Black Hayatte jumped up with a bark as a stray volleyball arched overhead, and darted after it before Fury could grab him. The ball, followed by Falman's cries for "a little help" hit the sand, bounced, and rebounded off the enthusiastic couple. The dog was right on it.

An irritated Colonel Mustang (Fury realized, with rapidly dawning dread) diverted his attention from his female companion and glared at the interruption. Black Hayatte wagged his tail.

Falman came back over to Breda and Fury, panting and demanding the ball back. Breda pointed, and the older man went white. "Oh shit."

The Colonel was pulling on his sandals slowly, with great care, looking murderous. Lieutenant Hawkeye had seized her pet and had a similar expression plastered all over her face.

"Is he mad about the ball, or just for having seen us, I wonder?" Fury asked.

"Who cares?"

"Well, degree of pain if we get caught is going to differ greatly if we have personal blackmail."

The two groups stared at each other. "I'm thinking about our options," Fury said quietly.

"I'm thinking we run," Breda answered.

"I agree."

"I am also in favor of this," Falman said.

"What about the beer?" Breda asked. Two empty bottles already sat off to the side.

"Leave it," Fury squeaked.

Mustang was climbing to his feet, and Hawkeye was wrapping herself in a sarong.

"Now?"

"Now."

The four men all began to dash at once, one towards, the other three away. Falman, having longer legs, drew slightly ahead and began to scout for an appropriate obstacle course. There was a fence about a hundred yards away and quickly approaching.

"I can't make that in a jump," Fury panted when he realized Falman's plan. The Warrant Officer seized him around the waist and chucked him up; Fury gripped the top of the fence, and looked down to reassure himself that he hadn't just nearly been thrown off the edge of a cliff.

A small crowd of decidedly naked people looked back at him. "This ain't no peep show!" someone yelled.

"Safe," Fury called anyway, and hauled himself over. Falman and Breda were quick to follow, barely ahead of Mustang.

"Come back here you idiots," came the snarl from the other side, almost unheard. Several people on the nude beach were screaming in rage or embarrassment or perhaps just because screaming was fun. The soldiers were huddled together and making quite a bit of effort to both get to the other side and not look; whoever came up with the idea that _anyone_—principally fat, middle-aged anyones—should be allowed to walk around naked on the beach should have been shot, Fury thought.

Their latecomer commander stuck his face over the fence, too, and was hit with a shoe that someone conjured from somewhere.

"I vote that now we get our asses back to the hotel and pack," Breda panted.

"How? The Colonel's right outside!" Fury closed his eyes and made a peace gesture at the approaching mob.

"But he'll figure out where we're staying eventually. They have the dog now, too."

"_Shit_," Falman said again.

"Don't worry, we're leaving," Fury told the glaring nudies. "My suggestion: The other side of the beach."

"We'd better keep running then," Breda said, still panting. The opposite end of the fence was quite a distance away.

They made it back to the hotel without being spotted, though Fury grew extremely aware of the tourists' stares. They no doubt looked strange, running down the streets as if being chased by the hounds of hell, barefoot and in their bathing suits (and him still clutching his mystery novel).

They _almost_ got away.

"I figured it was you three who bought up the last double today," Hawkeye said stonily, familiar pistol cocked and aimed as she stood in front of their door. She must have run back to the hotel, too, despite how she seemed mightily composed. Her hair was down, but not a single strand was out of place—she wasn't even breathing hard, despite how Breda probably wished she was. The dark blue sarong knotted tightly around her waist did not appear to have even shifted.

"That's a nice bikini. Got a new one since the calendar shoot, did you?"

She turned her gun on Falman. "That's none of your business."

"Seems the commander likes it on you," Breda followed, unable to resist the urge to tease her. If it hadn't been blindingly obvious before that he had a crush on her, he certainly wasn't trying hard to conceal it now.

The gun shifted again, and Hawkeye double-checked that the safety was off.

Fury, wishing he had something duck under, said nothing.

An indeterminate amount of time later, Mustang arrived with arms full of beach supplies. "Ah, my good lady, you appear to have caught some delinquents," he said.

"You're sure in good spirits," she replied dryly.

"I look the liberty of liberating our friends' beer. I figure that's maybe a tenth of the debt they owe me for those two bottles of whiskey," Mustang said. "What do you say we tie them up for the night, get our money's worth out of our suite and this lucky stash, and phone headquarters in the morning?"

"What's the word about Havoc?" Hawkeye asked, ignoring the come-on.

"No clue."

Breda, who'd been growing a little red in the face, looked to Mustang. "Tie us up? What kind of fun do _you_ plan on having tonight?"

"And gags, too, while we're at it."

Fury thought back to Breda's dominatrix comment, and barely contained a laugh.

"I don't want to know," said Falman.

"Supplies are in the room," Hawkeye told him, and jerked her head in the direction of the top level.

"I _really_ don't want to know," Falman moaned.

"Good…because I don't plan to show you," Mustang said, and trotted off, whistling happily to himself.


	5. Double Trouble

_Sorry it's been so long since an update—lost my creative edge for a while, and I didn't want to turn out anything that wasn't, you know…ah, it's all crap. Oh well. You suckers are falling for it anyway. Mwahahaha! XD_

_

* * *

_

**Double Trouble**

**

* * *

**

Second Lieutenant Havoc licked his palm, ran it through his hair for the hundredth time that hour, and used his knuckles to knock softly on the door. The bouquet of white roses cradled in his left arm crinkled just slightly at the motion. Automatically he reached for his box of cigarettes and thought better of it…she might not have liked him dragging smoke into her house.

This was going to be surprise, for sure. He felt a little bad about the lack of warning, but he hadn't planned on being out of town. Unconsciously he glanced down the cobbled street, as if soldiers would be showing up any moment to arrest him. Eastern was, after all, crawling with them.

But he was desperate for a date, and it was worth the risk. And the Colonel tended to steal girls out from under him just by walking by…he'd lost hope of ever finding anyone in Central, but there were sensible girls in Eastern.

Weren't there?

The door opened to reveal a girl of about sixteen, garbed in a very floury apron. Havoc grinned at her. "Hi, I'm looking for Victoria K—"

"Yeah, that's me," the girl said gruffly, one fist planted on her hip.

Havoc paused. No…it had to be a lie! He had _not_ come all the way out here for some schoolgirl. He just needed to find a_ woman_, dammit!

"Oh, pick your jaw up off the porch," she said, after a second or two under his incredulous stare. "You must be the _adorable_ Lieutenant Havoc sis has been going on about. Couldn't you even have the decency to call ahead?"

"I wasn't planning to be in the area," Havoc managed flatly. _Stop making so many assumptions!_

_ You have to admit that wasn't fair, her tricking you like that_, his ego argued back, and he nodded to himself.

She gave him an odd look shrugged. "Well, sis loves a surprise, that's for sure. C'mon in. You can sit there."

Havoc did as ordered…despite himself. But it was best not to act too presumptuous, he knew, and only felt marginally offended by the sister's attitude. She seemed almost used to it…did Victoria have a lot of boyfriends?

Havoc had been trying to figure out what kind of girl she was over the entire train ride to Eastern. In her letter, she had specified that she didn't get out very much, that she didn't have many friends because she was shy. She'd also said that she liked to play sports and read and build model trains…quite varied interests. She sounded lovely; her sister certainly was pretty, for a teenager. It seemed that just once he'd actually managed to snag himself a girl, even if he had to come back out to Eastern to do it.

That is, of course, unless she had mistaken him for Colonel Mustang. Havoc withered at the thought. But just then the sudden whispers of two female voices caught his attention:

"He brought me flowers?"

"Yes, Vicky, he did."

"Is he as handsome as I remember?"

"I think you've described him enough times for me to say yes." The sister's tone was weary. "Will you stop being so shy and just go out there? He's not gonna bite you. I mean, not yet anyway."

"That's mean!"

_Aw, that's so cute_, Havoc thought, and allowed himself a small, victorious smile. She was mild-mannered, even if that sister of hers wasn't.

"Just _go_!"

"Come with me."

"Fine…"

Havoc carefully erased the grin, in case it seemed predatory, and straightened up in his assigned chair.

Victoria, propelled by her sister, rounded the bend in the hallway and came into view. Havoc wilted again. She was _gorgeous_—tall and blonde and blushing in a very adorable way. He was on his feet almost at once.

They stood staring at each other for so long that the younger girl finally got fed up. "Oh, for the love of—I'm outta here," and stomped back down toward the now-apparent kitchen.

"Uuh, Ms Keydett…" Havoc stammered, feeling stupid. What was it that the Colonel found so easy about chatting up women? He took a few steps forward and thrust the bouquet at her. "I brought you these to say sorry—for the surprise I mean—and…"

She blushed deeper and took them. "They're lovely. And it's no bother…it's a pleasant surprise."

"Well I'm glad for that." He giggled. Why the hell had he _giggled_?

She giggled too, and it was as cute as anything. "Much more of a surprise than I deserve. I hope you're not supposed to be working."

"Well, it is Saturday," he reassured her. He did a quick mental checkup to make sure—he, Fuery, Falman and Breda had all been put on probation the day after the gun incident…and that had been Thursday. Yeah. Today was definitely Saturday.

"I suppose you'll be wanting of a vase," the sister said, coming back in with a yellow patterned one. They stopped what little talking they'd been doing. "For the roses," the girl prompted. The bundle was carefully extracted from its wrappings and arranged in the container.

"Were you out from Central for work, at least?" Victoria asked. "You said it was short notice. I hope dearly you didn't come all the way out here just to answer my letter."

"My trip here had a bit more of a purpose," he half-lied. Did running away from his inevitable punishment count as a purpose? "But I'm glad I came to answer your letter."

"Oh, that's so sweet of you," Victoria said, cradling the vase. Her sister nudged her and managed to wrestle it away (as if she was going to break it).

"Pardon me for asking," Havoc tried," but have we met? I'm afraid I don't really recognize you."

"Oh, I wouldn't think so. I'm the General's granddaughter, and so I've heard a lot of stories about you. I figured it was worth a try to write you a letter. I…I usually don't get answers. Thank you."

"Well, I can't see why not," Havoc said, genuinely shocked.

The sister grumbled something indistinct and made off down the hallway again. Victoria paid her no mind, and giggled again. "I think she probably doesn't want us crowding the house all day. Would you like to go somewhere, Mr. Havoc?"

"Jean is fine," he answered automatically. "Where did you have in mind?"

Victoria paused for a moment, and grinned slyly at him.

* * *

"Wha oo ouu fuppofe ffat noife if?" Breda asked, from around his gag. Even he, who was versed well enough in the sounds of various comings-and-goings, could not quite identify it. 

The others shook their heads violently.

_I suppose I really don't want to know either,_ Breda thought, and put his head back against the wall. Spending the night with his hands tied behind his back and his mouth stuffed with cotton was not his idea of a pleasant end to his short vacation. _I hope Havoc's having as good time as the Colonel and his "assistant" are…but if he is, I'm sure as hell not ready to hear about it._

_

* * *

_

Havoc was seriously considering requesting a transfer back to Eastern. Victoria, despite some minor moodiness that Havoc didn't quite understand (and attributed, therefore, to the female psyche), was _wonderful_. He did, however, feel uneasy after a while. The fact that she wanted to go down to the track wasn't all that disturbing. The fact that she insisted on betting wasn't terribly off from the norm. But the fact that she practically jumped the railing to get at a jockey after his horse came in second was a bit…frightening.

"Get off me," she growled, as he held her back from the railing. A few people stared, and a few looked amused. Most, however, ignored the scene as if it were an ordinary, even mundane occurrence.

"I think they would probably have a problem or two with interfering," Havoc explained calmly, from the executing side of the armlock. "Are you feeling all right, Victoria?"

A pause. "Yes...Jean. I'm all right, I think. Uh, could you let go of me?"

Cautiously, he released her arms.

"Terribly sorry…I don't know what came over me." She turned and gave him a very sweet, very innocent grin. It was miles from the murderous expression she had proffered just a minute ago. "I suppose I just don't like losing money."

"I know the feeling," Havoc said dryly. _But at least she didn't ask me to bet_ for _her._ "Actually, to be honest, I'm at the point of possibly losing a lot of it myself."

"You bet on the next race? On that loser horse—"

"No, no, I mean…I might not be staying in my current line of work. Not that it pays terribly well anyway, but it's enough."

"Yes, Grandad always griped about the low wages for the soldiers. 'The hardest-worked don't get paid as if they earn it,' he says. Quite a lot."

_How do you determine who's hardest-worked. Some of my superiors never seem to _sleep, Havoc thought. He said, "You should get what you earn, certainly. I wish the universe was fairer to me in that respect."

"Oh?"

_Don't jinx yourself._ "Nothing. I'm just babbling."

"Were you," she said coyly, nudging him with an elbow. "My poor Jean has bad luck, doesn't he? It's why you didn't bet."

"Something like that," he muttered.

"Bad luck with women? In the past, of course."

Havoc paused, and gave her a look. Why is it that women seemed to be able to read his mind? "Well, just that they always get stolen by my commanding officer…"

"Colonel Mustang?" she snorted, her voice rough suddenly. She made an unladylike face. "He's such a braggart and a flirt. Only easy girls like men like him!"

Havoc felt a smile creep onto his face.

_This was so _incredibly_ worth it!_

"Just do me a favor?"

"Anything, sweetie."

"Don't ever say that around his First Lieutenant."

* * *

"Ow," A somewhat preoccupied Colonel Mustang yelped and shook his hand furiously. "That hurt!" 

"It was supposed to," his subordinate answered. "Give up?"

"Oh no. But you know…this means _war_."

She rolled her eyes. "Men…"

* * *

"D—gah!" Havoc bit his lip to keep from cursing, and tasted blood. Immediately he ducked behind the nearest solid object. Victoria followed him. 

"Hey, why're you hiding from soldiers from your own army? You're not in some kind of _trouble_ are you?"

"I'm not supposed to be here," he admitted, between clenched teeth. His lip hurt bad. "Those guys know me too, back from when I was stationed here. I think this may be the end of our date. It was nice meeting you. I promise I'll write."

"From death row?" she asked, just a bit sarcastically. "Why is it that the first time I ever enjoy myself with someone it turns out he's a wanted criminal?"

"Hey, it's not like I killed anyone!" Havoc protested, his voice managing to jump an entire register this time. "For the love of Mary, what did the Colonel think we were going to do if he left us alone with his stash of liquor?"

She blinked. "What happened?"

"Long story short, they're installing new walls," he said dryly. "But…I guess sooner or later I have to go back and let them state my punishment."

"Well, if you're that convinced, just hold on a minute," she said, grabbed his arm, and without further ado planted a very real kiss on his lips.

Havoc winced, and then stared astonished as she licked up the blood that had a second ago been his. He was beginning to get weary of that mischievous grin. There was something lethal

"I'll come to see you in Central," she said.

Knowing his pride would be severely wounded if he didn't play the suicidal hero now, Havoc nodded stoically and stepped out from his hiding spot.

* * *

A knock on the heavy wooden suite door made for something edging on awkward. 

Colonel Mustang grunted at the sound and held up a hand. "Hold that thought. If they don't have pitchforks and a message to cut the noise, I'll be back soon."

Riza raised an eyebrow.

"Er. Soon_er_."

* * *

"After all the rumors flying around, I'm surprised you're not up for a fight," Lieutenant Biers said as Havoc waved at him. "Jeez, Jean, you came right where Central thought you would. Talk about being subtle." 

Havoc shrugged. "I've finished my business here."

The Lieutenant cocked his head critically. "Which was?"

Havoc jauntily pulled a cigarette from his pocket and stuck it in his mouth. "What else? I had to meet a girl."

* * *

"Uh…" 

"Yes?"

"In case they _do_ have pitchforks…"

"Shut up and answer the door."

"Yes ma'am."

* * *

"Hell, maybe I'll just come right now." A female hand reached up and pulled the cigarette from Havoc. 

Biers stared. The other officers started to snigger.

Havoc stared too. It felt like the right thing to do.

"Mary," Biers said. "You've been writing love letters again."

"Nope, not me," she said, and shrugged. "He's an awful sweetheart though, isn't he? Figured I might as well keep him company on the ride to Central."

"Your father won't let you."

She snorted. "Who cares?"

"Mary?" Havoc asked weakly.

"What happened to Vicky?"

She paused for a moment, blinked a few times, and looked to the cigarette that was between her fingers. "What…where did this come from?"

The Eastern soldiers laughed.

"Still coming to Central, Victoria?" Biers asked, smirking at Havoc.

_Mary is Vicky…my God, she's one of those split-personality types. Why does this _always _happen?_

She looked at the others, as if confused about why they were laughing. "Well, I suppose that might be fun. I'll have to ask Daddy though."

"We'll wait for you down at the station," Biers simpered.

Victoria handed the cigarette back and pranced off. Havoc took a long drag, closed his eyes, and willed it all to be some kind of hellish daydream…

"Eh, it's happened before," Biers said, slapping his shoulder. "I hear it's been better lately. Those medications they've got on the market now are just wonderful."

"Right." Havoc blew into the man's face. He probably shouldn't have, but in retrospect it was worth it.

* * *

The page ducked as a blunt-ended pole sailed past him and rebounded off the hallway wall. 

Mustang turned back at the Lieutenant and made a face.

She shrugged. "Slipped, sorry."

"I—I have a message from Eastern Headquarters," the boy said, staring wide-eyed past the Colonel at Hawkeye, who had picked up a towel and was wiping down.

Mustang claimed a folded telegraph strip from the boy and dismissed him with a wave. "Really, Lieutenant. It was a kid."

"I _did_ slip.

"I don't believe you."

"The message," she said pointedly, reaching for the uniform that was draped out of a chair.

He cleared his throat dramatically and read it aloud. "'Target captured, stop. Will be delivered to Central on the next departing train, stop. With baggage, stop. Regards, Lt. Biers, full stop.' I suppose that means we should gather the rest of our little mini-mafia and head back. And to think we didn't even get to spend the night."

"'With baggage?'" she asked, tossing him the towel.

"I don't know what that means."

"I suppose we'll find out." Hawkeye sighed, picked up her uniform and stalked into the bathroom.

Mustang was halfway to the closed door when he heard the lock click.

"You're too predictable," she said from the other side. "Now be a good boy and put the sparring weapons away. Oh, and don't let the dog chew up my wooden pole, please. He's had his eye on it ever since it came out of its case."

The mutt, as obedient as he always was around the woman, was making a credible attempt at getting it _back_ in the bag.

"Suck-up," he muttered.


	6. Backlash

_Judging by the responses I got from the last chapter, I probably won't use Victoria/Mary much more in the story…though her supposed presence is a bit necessary for Havoc's character here. To tell the truth I may not have written her at all if I hadn't gotten so many questions about Havoc's "date." It's not really a justification, but it'll do._

_I can't really think of anything witty to say. It all got used up in this chapter…mostly in the Riza-teasing. It's so fun to write her character when she's being harassed—she has that pride thing going on that makes it all the more amusing. Anyway, enjoy._

_

* * *

_

**Backlash**

**

* * *

**

"Somebody was having fun," Falman muttered, staring at the brick ceiling of the tiny 4-person cell.

"What do you mean?" Breda asked, idly thumping the wall with his fist. Tiny dust particles drifted into Falman's face with every dull thud.

"'To sit in solemn silence on a dull dark dock, in a pestilential prison with a lifelong lock, awaiting the sensation of a short sharp shock, from a cheap and chippy chopper on a big black block.'" Falman recited, tracing the carvings with his finger. "It's not nearly as impressive in writing as it is fun to say."

Breda stopped pounding the wall. "Did you take drama class in school, man? Because you just gave me chills."

"This isn't a death row cell," Fury said, not really sounding sure.

"It used to be, back when there was only one military prison in Central," Breda said. "I wonder if they're trying to scare us."

"They wouldn't execute us for putting a few bullet holes in those crappy walls," Fury muttered. I mean, I wasn't even really _involved_…"

"Yeah, it was all Havoc's fault for trying to shoot back at me," Breda said, only the smallest hint of sarcasm in his voice. "Ain't that right, loverboy?"

No answer.

"Havoc…"

Falman rolled over in his bunk and leaned over the edge to watch.

"Havoc!"

"What?"

"Man, did you move off-planet or what? I was just saying—"

"That's enough, Breda," Fury said shortly. "Leave the poor man alone—"

"It's okay, Sergeant, I think Breda's just jealous," Falman said, quickly hiding his smirk. "Of the girl, anyway. Admit it, you scoundrel, you want Havoc all to yourself and the world just _conspires_ to keep you two apart,"

"Conspiring to the point of me liking _women_," Breda shot back.

"How tragic," Falman said mournfully. "And I'd so hoped that you two would at least _kiss_ in my lifetime."

"_You_ can kiss _my_ ass!"

Sudden footsteps interrupted the bout of name-calling that ensued.

"Don't—" Breda made a sudden face at the sound of clanging keys, but his warning was not heeded.

"You know, your mother and I have always been firmly against incest," Colonel Mustang said in a patronizing kind of way. Opening the cell door and stepping inside, he continued, "It turns out that as much as we love have you kids out of the house, we miss you. Imagine our surprise."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence, _Dad_," Breda replied in the same tone. "Did it turn out that the white powder in the glove compartment was actually chalk dust from your latest crime scene investigation?"

"The secretary 'misplaced' it," Mustang said lightly, waving his hand but playing along with the metaphor anyway. Hawkeye, behind him, made a very slight frown.

"Now that you and Mom are finally married it might be a good idea to dissolve the harem," Falman put in, feeling witty and a bit liberated. Prior to Falman noticing the poem, they'd been discussing the best tactics to use for irritating "Mom."

"I know of no such thing," Mustang said, feigning innocence. Behind him, Hawkeye grimaced a little more noticeably. Whether at the prospect of marriage or that of the harem Falman could not tell.

He'd just interrupted his mouth to further the teasing when she said, "The panel decided to drop the charges of attempted murder and rebellion against the institution if you all agree to submit daily reports on your activities, with our signatures to validate them."

"_What_? That's tyrrany!"

"Would you rather start looking for new jobs—and new identities?" she asked calmly.

There was a tense silence, but no outright objections.

"Then you're released. Go home and get back in uniform…you need to report to the firing range in an hour for weapons re-qualifications."

"I'm qualified—I don't need to re-take a test—" Breda started, and stopped.

"I won't be the one judging you," Hawkeye said. It wasn't particularly reassuring. "But the military's convinced that if you couldn't a target ten feet away in a closed space, something is wrong."

Three men groaned. One glanced up briefly to see what the matter was.

"I bet Mr. Lovestruck over here could still do better than you three at the targets," Mustang continued, knocking on the top of Havoc's head.

"Hey…" the protest was weak, and faded entirely after a second's effort.

"Let's go," the Colonel said before Havoc's attention entirely waned.

Feeling a bit dazed weary, the company emerged from their dark quarters and proceeded to the outprisoner station. As Fury was collecting his mystery novel, a secretary passed them. "I'm so sorry about losing that incident report, Lieutenant," she said, stopping behind the addressee.

"It happens. I've lost paperwork before too," Hawkeye said, lightly, her voice straining a bit to maintain its chipper-ness.

The secretary reached up and flipped her hair. "I just hope it wasn't too much trouble."

"We're fine. I appreciate your trying to find it anyway."

After the girl had moved out of the hall, Breda looked wide-eyed at the Colonel. Mustang coughed and pretended to ignore him.

"The things I do for your people," Hawkeye muttered.

"Well how was I to know?" Mustang muttered back. "I'm not used to people flirting with _you_."

"You don't pay attention, do you?"

Falman watched Breda carefully avert his eyes (and ears) from the conversation. Elbowing him and chuckling, he whispered, "Do you like girls who like girls?"

"It isn't that," Breda hissed, going a bit red.

"Give it up."

"I _have_. Mostly."

* * *

"You know, it's really hard to concentrate with you breathing down my neck, Lieutenant."

"Excuse my need for oxygen." Hawkeye crossed her arms and didn't budge an inch. "If you want your firearm permit back you have to fix your grip, Breda. How the hell did you slip into such a bad habit in the first place?"

"I guess I thought mine worked the way it was."

"As illustrated by the pitiful display of marksmanship."

"How much overkill does one need, exactly?"

"Never enough." Colonel Mustang, who had been pacing along the stalls, stopped for a moment to contribute to the dialogue. His hand deftly appeared on Hawekeye's shoulder. "Though from _personal_ experience, it takes overkill just to—"

"You're lucky you're not being tested too," she said, raising an eyebrow. "You've got the worst aim I've ever seen."

Mustang scoffed. "Alchemists don't need guns."

"That would explain a few things."

Breda snickered.

The Colonel looked puzzled for a moment, and slowly made a hurt face. "Hey!"

Fury, who was in the next booth over, stuck his head around the barrier. "I think maybe she's won this round, Colonel. You might as well get back to work."

"Work? What work? Just call the overseeing officer over and get this over with…If I wanted to work I'd go back to the office."

"How much paperwork is this little jaunt costing?" Fury asked.

"I've no idea of what you speak."

"_Ah_."

Hawkeye pulled roughly away from Mustang's hand and continued on her rounds. A moment later there was a groan from Falman's booth, to the tone of "all right already."

"Hardass," Breda muttered.

"Yeah…she is" Mustang answered.

"Colonel?"

"What?"

"The situation between the First Lieutenant and yourself, as it currently stands, is an unnecessary decoration to our interaction and I would appreciate your utmost discretion in going on about what is frankly none of my business."

"It's perfectly all right to be jealous," Mustang said, a hint of condescending in his voice. "Not that any competition you might offer is worth anything, but—"

"Leave me alone."

* * *

Lieutenant Colonel Kosta sat at the reviewing table, four target sheets spread out in front of him. Four soldiers stood at attention behind them.

"Second Lieutenant Havoc," Kosta called, holding out a small black folder, "here is your permit."

Havoc, after a nudge from Fury, stepped forward to take it without a word. His target was easily the neatest of the four—there was a small mostly-round cluster carved out of the center. Idly, he wandered away.

"Now as for the rest of you…" Kosta began, sounding not very pleased. "I can't believe you're in the same division as Lieutenants Hawkeye and Havoc. How long has it been since you used a gun?"

"While sober, sir?" Falman asked before anyone could stop him.

"Fine soldiers, the lot of you," Kosta said wearily. "I suppose no one thought to put you on the watch list for alcohol abuse?"

"It was our commander's fault, sir," Breda responded.

"Your displacing blame is not making your case any better," Kosta warned him.

"Sorry, sir." Well, it was true. But Mustang got away with _everything_.

"Atrocious," Kosta continued, picking up the chart furthest to his right. Out of the thirteen rounds fired from the pistol, there were eleven holes. Only about a third of them were within the target's inner portion. Another third was outside the target area, and the eleventh had just barely nicked the left edge. "I suppose that you didn't kill any woodland creatures while you were at this is somewhat of a miracle, Warrant Officer. Watch your drinking problem."

Falman accepted his folder with mild astonishment, saluted and went to join Havoc, Hawkeye and Mustang.

Kosta tapped two fingers against Fury's target. It was modest, better than Falman's but obviously not as practiced as Havoc's. "I suppose our technical officers don't really need the strictest standards, Sergeant. You're dismissed as well."

Fury nodded and without much show took his own permit.

"Now _you_…"

Breda stared questioningly at the man. Despite Hawkeye's criticism his shooting was far from terrible. He'd beat Falman by a mile and several hundred points.

"Your grip is incorrect."

"_What_? You weren't even _watching—_"

"Shut up or I'll keep this," the Lieutenant Colonel threatened, and waved the last black folder.

Breda grimaced and clenched his jaw over his protests. After several seconds of amusing his judge, he got his permit back.

"What the hell kind of trick was this?" he demanded of the others, as they began to make their way off the compound.

"What trick?" Mustang asked.

"We totally don't meet the standards! We shouldn't have gotten these permits back. I want to know what happened to the system that was supposedly going to execute us!"

"They were never going to execute us," Fury protested. "I think you've got your systems confused…"

"Like I had anything to worry about," Havoc sighed.

"_What is wrong with all of you?_"

"Are you feeling all right?" Mustang asked blankly.

"_Yes!_"

"You're being paranoid, Breda," Falman insisted.

"_I am NOT!_"

"Can you at least show a little gratitude?" Hawkeye asked suddenly, turning to stare stonily at him. "You have your weapons permits back; you managed to keep your jobs and even got a remodeled office in the process. What exactly do you have to complain about?"

"I don't understand _why_."

"I don't really think it's all that necessary," Hawkeye said. "Considering all I do for you people, it'd be nice just to get a thank-you!"


	7. Apologies

The minute hand of the clock showed 9, the second hand ticking back and forth between :00 and :01 on a dreary, ordinary Wednesday morning.

Lieutenant Hawkeye opened the outer office door and crossed the room.

Breda stared lifelessly across his desk into the wall, where perhaps if one looked hard enough they could see the slightest suggestion of a shadow.

"Why aren't we doing anything?" Falman asked. But, since less than a second of real time elapsed, his words emerged on top of each other, more like:

"Why  
aren't  
we doi  
ng any  
thing?"

Fury shrugged.

"I like  
the bre  
ak thou  
gh.  
One hal  
f-second  
where w  
e aren't  
getting i  
nto troub  
le is bliss  
to me."

Lieutenant Hawkeye opened the outer office door and crossed the room.

"I have  
the feeli  
ng some  
thing's n  
ot right  
here." Falman said.

"Like w  
hy while  
our phras  
es are co  
ming out  
all at once  
we still  
have se  
parate  
lines?" Fury replied.

If one were listening hard enough, they might have heard a voice answer: "Because I don't have _time_ to fill in all the damn plot holes right now. In fact, I don't have time to write a complete chapter. Not that I scrapped the one in progress or anything…it's just been delayed. Thank you for not complaining when I have the College Curriculum From Hell, half a dozen projects, an application to my major, job applications, art/comic projects and an actual social life. I mean _do you have ANY idea how much sleep I've lost this last quarter? DO YOU?"_

Breda nodded, staring at the corner where the author's muse sat sadly scribbling on paper scraps, weeping like a kindergartener wrongly condemned to an eternal time-out.

"Oh."

"Oh."

Lieutenant Hawkeye opened the outer office door and crossed the room.

* * *

_gomengomengomengomengomenasai O.x_

_Honest to whatever Holy Person you subscribe to, I have NOT forgotten about my tremendously funny fanfic. I've got about half of the next real chapter written. Please give me until the end of finals, then I SWEAR I'll work on it some more._

_XOXOX Itsumo-chan_


	8. Candid Casualty

_Yeah folks, sorry it's been so long. Many apologies, plus that tide-you-over thing last chapter. I make no excuses. And I'll have you know my grades were worth it. Much Roy/Hawkeye today. I haven't been writing much serious Royai lately, and boy does it show. Ah well, still plenty of funnies. Enjoy. Please also review…it feeds my ego something wonderful.   
_

_

* * *

_

**"Candid Casualty"**

**

* * *

**

There was a wall where it shouldn't have been. The visible chamber (aka the company's office) had transformed into something that was about two-thirds of its former size. This, of course, meant that things were cramped.

"Damn," Breda said. "I didn't think we'd damaged the supporting wall _that_ badly."

"Those shots didn't even go all the way through the plaster," Falman added, raising an eyebrow. "What happened to the file cabinets?"

"They're in my office," Roy said, pushing nonchalantly past and toward the new wall. It had a door in it.

A door. Now it was making sense.

"They gave you an office?" If there were frequency levels to indignity, Breda's voice was communicating in gamma rays. "_An office?_"

"I am curious," Fury said.

"I'm _furious_."

Mustang waved a hand and disappeared inside.

"While you were having fun in prison he managed to convince the construction workers that his company distracted him from his duties," Hawkeye said. Her bemusement was somewhere between green and ultraviolet.

"Well, it does a disservice if it keeps you out too," Falman pointed out.

"Notice how there is six of us, but only four desks visible."

"So where are you going to work, in his lap?"

The First Lieutenant shot Breda a poisonous look.

"Being on a military budget, I'm sure the wall's very thin," Falman said thoughtfully. "Not very ideal for privacy."

"Just whose side are you on here, Warrant Officer?"

Falman shrugged. "It appears that I'm not on the window side of this arrangement…just the same as you, Lieutenant."

"Whose desk is whose?" Fury asked, as the two principal conversationalists stopped talking because they were preparing to get a little more physical.

Hawkeye shrugged. "I'm not the maid. I didn't keep track of where they moved everything. I figured you'd be smart enough to figure it out for yourselves. Though I could always be wrong—"

"I think we'd best get to work," Fury said before Breda or Falman could think of a snide comeback. He grabbed an inert Havoc and gently dragged him out of the hallway.

"Do we have to?" Havoc whined.

"He's speaking in full sentences now?"

Havoc paused, as if thinking very hard. "Want hungry?" he tried.

"False alarm." Falman said.

Hawkeye rolled her eyes for what had to be the thousandth time that day and followed the Colonel into his office.

"Say, Breda, whatever happened to that video camera?" Falman asked, looking up briefly from his latest daily activities manifest. "Did you ever get anything useful out of it?"

"You know, I never checked," Breda answered thoughtfully. "Hey Fury, do you remember where exactly we stashed it?"

"What are you talking about?" Fury said, not missing a beat. He didn't want to be involved in anything that could potentially get them into trouble yet again. True, he _had_ helped jury-rig an innocent-looking container for the thing, but Breda also had failed to specify his intentions. The Colonel and his second-in-command could get into a lot of trouble if they were caught fraternizing. Somehow, miraculously, the rumors perpetuated by Falman had never been substantiated by an outside party, and were generally considered an exaggeration of Mustang's current reputation as a horndog. Fury thought it was sweet that the two of them were finding some kind of happiness…if constantly being teased by your co-workers didn't aggravate it too much, anyway.

"I bet we could really get some good stuff now that they're not constantly running the risk of being walked in on," Falman said. "I bet we could get some stuff that's sellable."

"That's so immoral!" Fury protested, over the clamoring of his brain to keep quiet. "Don't you have any human decency—?"

"I'd sacrifice just about anything to see the Lieutenant—"

"See me what?" At that precise moment, the inner office door opened and Hawkeye emerged, carrying a stack of manila folders. Her face revealed nothing about how much of the conversation she'd overheard.

Breda evidently decided to go for broke. "Let your hair down once and a while. You're so uptight, Hawkeye. Why don't you relax and let us police ourselves?"

"Because if I did I'd end up with nobody to boss around," she replied, and went off straight-backed (and –faced) to run whatever errand she'd had in mind.

"What exactly did that mean?" Falman asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Obviously some joke we're not smart or involved enough to understand," Breda snapped, suddenly moody.

"Caught you off-guard, did she?" Havoc asked.

Everyone stopped to look at him. Again.

"What? Never more bananas have looked gentle."

"You're pathetic, Jean."

"If you ripen up," Havoc said, drifting back into his normal (or what had recently become so) state.

"He's right, however accidentally," Fury said. "That was close. You really shouldn't antagonize her like that—it just puts you under stress, and I don't like watching."

"What a thrill though," Falman argued. "Always gets my adrenaline going, when I have to restrain the roaring laugher."

"In any case, tack up one more spectacular, witty recovery on my part," Breda said, going just a little red in the face.

"It didn't really sound like she believed you."

"How would you know?"

"We've worked with her for _how_ long?"

"In any case, it's the processing in the recesses of my great brain that counts here!"

"Does that rank down there with the fruit-packing plant, or did it recently qualify for a coal-burning permit?"

"It's unskilled labor," Fury muttered darkly.

"_What did you just say_?"

"He _said_ that he doubts your capacity for intelligent thought and planning," Havoc said sharply.

"Uh…" Breda tried, trying to digest Havoc's sudden cognizance of the conversation.

"Wrestle the weasel sometime. You'll see."

"It must be a conditioned response," Fury said weakly, poking at the once-again-inactive Second Lieutenant.

"A what?"

"You know, like how a dog comes running if you ring a dinner bell."

"I wouldn't know…usually if a dog's running at me I'm running away."

Falman immediately began (silently) planning a prank that involved stitching many tiny bells into Breda's uniform. After some further pointless bickering all around, Fury was passed a set of drawings of a humanlike blob fleeing, terrified, from little doglike blobs. All around the amateurish art was a sophisticated scheme, written in code (dog terms inserted where vowels would be), for how to get Breda temporarily out of his uniform. Fury, eyes wide, immediately stuffed the papers into his Drawer of Forbidden Things, fully intent on never looking at them again.

There were several loud thumps from the other side of the Inappropriate Wall. "This thing's very thin, you know," Mustang's muffled voice informed them. "Didn't I ever teach you kids how to use your inside voices?"

They sighed, collectively, and worked a little more on their manifests.

_Our company worked harmoniously and efficiently on the currently assigned project,_ Fury wrote, and marveled at his own boldness.

A while later, Breda said, "No, really, that camera was expensive. I want it back. Where did we put it, Fury?"

"I'll get it later," Fury responded. And immediately cursed himself for being so nice.

* * *

The wall clock, restored from its back-and-forth state, showed 9:12 pm. 

"The house is so nice and quiet when all the kids have gone out," Mustang sighed. He yawned, rolled back his chair, and propped his boots up on top a finished patrol report (due two days ago). "It seems so much easier to do anything at all when they're not making a racket."

"It doesn't seem that your wall idea has been terribly successful," Hawkeye said, signing off her own report from _tomorrow's_ patrol. "I don't know why you were so insistent if you didn't believe it had at least a small chance of raising your productivity."

"Who said it hasn't?"  
Hawkeye glanced up and moved a white knight on the chessboard that sat exactly on the seam where their desks met. "Checkmate. I know _I've_ improved my game. That's what, the fourth in a row?"

"Fifth," the Colonel sighed. "I suppose all this office rearranging has affected my mental state. We'll have to start a tally tomorrow. Loser buys dinner that night?"

Hawkeye chuckled. "Are you sure about that?"

"Well, I _do_ get paid more than you."

"So you're admitting you're probably _not_ off your game after all?"

"Wasn't that game that I was referring to."

Hawkeye deposited her completed assignments into her "out" tray and raised an eyebrow. There was that point where it got difficult to ignore. "I can't even have a real office for one day before you start coming on to me, can I?"

The Colonel shrugged. "See, I figure if I start now I'll get somewhere by, you know, next year."

"Am I really so cold?"

"I don't imagine so, when it's this warm."

She raised her eyebrow again. "You have terrible taste in jokes, you know that?"

"Critic."

"Clown."

They stared at each other for a moment.

Mustang grinned. "Ok, so we've had our first disagreement. Do we get to make up now?"

Hawkeye sighed. "Why do you provoke me?"

"Because I know it's easier than most people think."

Hawkeye snapped her arm out across her desk and pushed Mustang's boot back. Straight-legged and reclined as he was, he lost his balance and, in a cloud of half-finished papers, crashed to the floor.

"So is that." She said.

* * *

"Okay okay okay, uncle! But, you know, this floor is a lot more comfortable than I thought it would be." 

"You have such subtle way with invitations, Roy Mustang."

"You, madam, are just too smart for me."

"And yet way too easily persuaded."

* * *

Breda arrived at work the next morning strangely eager for what he claimed was nothing at all. In fact, he arrived early and with a lock-pick. The abandoned black sock on the floor seemed promising. 

First Lieutenant Hawkeye arrived several hours late, complaining of the long hours she had clocked last night, and how payroll wasn't counting them towards what she had missed this morning. Promptly at 5 o'clock, she and Mustang both left. The Colonel was complaining about how he wasn't going to have any spending money for the next month.

"I'm confused," Falman said. "Those two shouldn't be allowed to talk to each other without us knowing what it means."

"Maybe we'll have some answers here," Breda said, pulling out Fury's video camera triumphantly. "I set everything up last night…got a fresh tape and everything. Now that they're gone, we can watch."

Knowing that there was nothing he could do to further incarcerate himself, Fury joined Falman and Havoc (who was moving on his own today) at Breda's desk.

After some rewinding, a tiny, slightly fisheye-angled Mustang and Hawkeye appeared on the playback screen. They were working on papers. After a moment, the Colonel glanced up and said something. Hawkeye's shoulders sagged slightly. She apparently said something back, because the Colonel laughed. The actions cycled a few more times, and then Hawkeye began to stuff papers into an envelope. Then she did something strange: she pulled off her boot and removed a sock.

"Uh oh," Breda said.

Hawkeye put her boot back on, stood up, filed her envelope in a nearby cabinet, and then reached up toward her audience. The screen went dark.

"Well, that was bloody useless," Breda groaned, and shut off the camera.

"Serves you right," Havoc said.

"_What_?"

"Fire trucks go woo-woo!" Havoc replied, and held his open palm out behind his back. Fury low-fived him, and tried not to grin and give himself away.

It was hard. Oh, it was hard.


	9. Half Baked

_OMFG, I FINALLY got it done. Sorry about the incredibly long wait. Thanks muchly for your patience. Note: read for innuendo. I didn't write it in intentionally (mostly), but upon re-reading it's soooo there. Also, apparent the narrative is choppy and whatnot. May fix eventually. Long hiatus does bad thing to my writing skills. Anyway, hope the exuberance is insubstantial and whatnot. Can you tell I'm back in Seattle?_

_Edit: edited, correct breaks this time around.  
_

_

* * *

_

**Half-Baked**

**

* * *

**"Mornin', Breda. Where's everybody else?" Falman had sauntered into the office over an hour late, but despite the slow day Breda appeared to be the only company attending.

Breda made a "shut up" gesture and pointed at the Colonel's office door, which was closed. Strange, unearthly noises issued from the other side.

Falman put his ear to it curiously, and appeared to stop breathing. Eventually, he said, "I didn't know that Lieutenant Hawkeye was _capable_ of crying."

"Me neither," Breda agreed.

"Who's in there with her?"

"Fury…"

"Where're Havoc and the Colonel?"

"Think they were out on some kind of patrol today."

_And usually I'm the only one who knows what's going on_, Falman thought a little bitterly.

"What's going on in there?" Breda asked him. The Lieutenant was still sitting at his workstation.

"Well, between your yammering cowardice and the thick wood, it's hard to tell," Falman shot back. "But I think maybe it has something to do with her boytoy."

"Well of course it does! I knew that sleazebag would do something to her," Breda hissed triumphantly. "Oh, I'm so going to kick his ass—"

"If that isn't what Havoc's already doing," Falman replied, rolling his eyes. "If he knows, he most certainly would. And you know he's more likely to get what's going on. Those three have known each other for a lot longer than we have."

Breda shot Falman a look that said he was unconvinced, but the man had a transparency that bordered on not being there at all.

"Besides, he could outrun you," Falman added.

"Yeah, right!"

Falman knew, though, that if you insulted Breda for long enough he shut up. He put his ear back to the door and listened.

_"Kain, I just don't know what I'm going to do. At first it felt like we could get away with it, you know? But it feels like life has finally caught up to us. After all that happened last weekend—"_

_"Riza, are you sure you aren't overreacting? All couples have fights."_

_"We're not even supposed to be a couple! We could both lose our jobs, you know that. And I know you won't tell anyone, but…I don't know, I've have trouble trusting anyone lately."_

_"Good lord, why? We're your friends, you shouldn't ever need to hide anything from us!"_

There was a long, awkward pause.

_"You work with those idiots. Look what they did to our building. I can't trust them with my personal problems. I shouldn't even _have_ personal problems!"_

_"Everyone has personal problems. How boring would that be if we didn't?"_

_"Kain, you know this is different. Breda stalks me like some kind of badly-disguised tomcat, Falman can't go five minutes without playing some kind of prank and Havoc's…well, Havoc just hasn't been right lately."_

_"His girlfriend is four people squeezed into one. You have to admit that takes a lot out of a person."_

_"People change when they get involved in relationships. I mean…I don't want that. What good is change if they're not the person you like anymore?"_

_"Well, from my experience with girlfriends…"_

"_You_ have experience?" Falman muttered.

"What?" Breda asked.

"Nothing."

_"…not necessarily something that you live with, but it does require a lot of effort."_

"No, really, what?"

"Shut up!" Falman told him.

"If it was some comment about me and you're not letting me hear it I'm going to pound your head in."

Falman pulled his ear away from the door and fixed Breda with a Poisonous Stare that he'd learned from Hawkeye some time ago. "They're talking about Havoc and his psycho girlfriend…but if you really want to know the Lieutenant also accused you of being a perverted stalker."

"You made that up," Breda said, but a few more seconds of the Stare had him wilting. "She did? Really?"

"Yup. And thanks to your whining I missed the rest of what they were talking about."

"If there's more I don't want to know."

"Oh good, we've progressed to denial; the first stage of grieving," Falman said. "Just don't tell me to deny that I heard Fury saying he's been involved with girls. Now if you'll shut that pie hole maybe there's more here."

Breda lapsed into sullen silence.

_"Like I said, I guess I don't really trust them. They've all got big mouths and don't seem to pay much attention to what they say. And I need my privacy over something like this._

_"I can see why you wouldn't want anybody to take it out of context. You smack the Colonel around on a schedule, practically. I don't think you would have assumed he'd always let you do it."_

_"…Thank you. That's comforting, Kain."_

_"Well, you have to admit you've been rough on him. The poor old boy really likes you. You can't just treat him like a toy, even if that's your reputation."_

_"He's not allowed to treat me like one either!"_

Falman gave up on listening in and shook his head. "Jesus, this is boring. You'd think even the Colonel and the Lieutenant would have interesting dirt, but they're as normal as everyone. Hell, Havoc's love life beats theirs."

"Nothing?" Breda asked, sounding concerned. "That's not like the Colonel at all."

"Yeah, I know."

"Now I'm _really_ curious."

"Yeah, I know."

* * *

**Somewhere across town…**

Anyone who was at all socially conscious learned to be suspicious of stores with signs that say "Apothecary." Roy Mustang, temporary civilian had been given the opportunity to do some plainclothes investigating on the matter.

There was no jolly little jangling bell that sounded as he opened the door. Nevertheless, the old ethnic woman at the counter eyed him suspiciously. Roy tried his best not to walk like a soldier (walking in with a "partner" would have been even more suspicious, hence his solitude).

"Can I help you?" the woman asked as he began to browse disinterestedly through the shelves. She had a heavy accent—she was from Xing.

_When you want a job right,_ he thought amusedly, _send the right person to do it._ He was certainly qualified; he'd grown up speaking the language. He replied, "It's all right, I'm not looking for anything in particular."

_That _made her start a bit. She raised an eyebrow and answered, this time in Xing's language. "Have we been acquainted?"

"I wouldn't imagine so. I don't live here."

"Oh, so you're on vacation?"

"Just taking a little leisure time, yes. I haven't seen much in the way of stress relievers over here. I don't suppose you have anything too strong?"

The faintest of smiles crossed her wrinkled face. "I have more in the back."

_Roy Mustang undercover success rate, 100,_ he thought, reaching for his wallet.

* * *

**Some time later...**

Fury slipped quietly out of the Colonel's office and shut the door behind him. Falman and Breda glanced hurriedly up from their work, both looking concerned and a little angry. "Is she going to be okay?" Falman asked, breaking character just a little for the sake of his colleague.

"I told her she should take the afternoon off from work and get away for a while, away from everybody," Fury answered. "I don't know if there's really all that much more we can say or do—"

"I could pound that sonofabitch into the floor," Breda growled.

"But you won't, because that would be assaulting a superior officer and you know what terrible things that would do to your already stellar record," Fury shot back, sounding irritated.

"You seem a bit distraught yourself, Kain. Do you need some comfort time?" Falman, unable to resist the urge, popped back into shape and went over to fake-hug his slight superior.

Fury shoved him off, making a face. "I don't always appreciate playing counselor you know. I only do it because without someone in that role you'd all have killed each other by now. And Lieutenant Hawkeye isn't an exception to that statement, I might add."

Breda shivered. "I'm going to try not to take what you just said too seriously, because it scares the crap out of me."

"If you had to die, wouldn't you prefer it though?" Falman said, raising an eyebrow. "As opposed to, say, mauling by dogs."

"Only if those are my only options. I mean, what would _you_ rather have?"

Falman shrugged. "I hear our lovely Lieutenant has quite an imaginitive violent streak…"

"Where did you hear that?" Breda demanded, and immediately directed his gaze to Fury.

Fury held up his hands. "I don't want to know. I really don't."

"Speaking of her, where is she? Is she going home or not?" Breda peered (discreetly) through the office door. "Wha? Where'd she go?"

Fury followed his gaze. "Uh, out the window? It's open…"

"What kind of sane person goes out the window?"

"I don't think she's feeling quite herself."

"No kidding."

* * *

Roy, having shed for the afternoon all formality of rank and whatnot, took a deep breath through his third hand-rolled joint and handed it off to his partner-in-crime. "Seriously," he asked, "you've never done this before?"

His companion nodded, a somewhat truncated gesture considering they were both lying flat on Roy's apartment floor. "Not once. I mean, never had the resources. You and your savvy ethnic connections…"

"Yeah, true. But I mean, all these years and we've never even talked about it before. It's like we're being connected in a whole new way. And you know, I kinda like it."

"I'm kinda disappointed. Aren't I supposed to, you know, see stuff?"

"Nah. You don't want to get into that heavy stuff…it'll mess you up bad. This is just supposta, you know, _tweak_ your perception. Open up your mind."

"My body feels heavy."

"Yeah, it kinda does that too."

"Don't really wanna go back to work."

"Well, I felt that way even before I got up this morning."

The newbie laughed. "Yeah, true. What time is it? They're going to be getting pissed if we don't show up soon."

"It's only been half an hour since we got here."

"Wow. Man, it seems longer than that. I mean, my brain must be working serious overtime up there."

"Any profound insights?"

"Well, I was thinking, you know, how can you feel so small and so big at the same time…?"

* * *

"So when were the Colonel and Havoc supposed to be back from their little patrol or whatever?" Breda asked.

"Dunno. Guess we'll figure it out when they get here," Falman answered. He was stretched across both his and Fury's desks, lying in a nest of papers. "Personally, I'm not really eager."

"Why would it matter? You know Fury's going to snitch on your for slacking off anyway."

"You know, Breda, sitting straight-backed at your desk having the _appearance_ of dutifulness doesn't necessarily mean you're off the hook either. I see those crossword puzzles." Fury, having heard his name, stuck his head out of the Colonel's office temporarily.

"Shut up, shrimp, or I'll make you emotionally council me too."

* * *

"I think I've got the munchies. You have any food around here?"

"You mean on the floor?" Roy giggled. "Not last time I looked, unless you want to try to eat a dust bunny."

"Your wit astounds me," the other said dryly.

Roy, with an exaggerated groan, managed himself off his rug and went in search of snacks. "I have some raw potatoes, wheat crackers, two apples and half a loaf of bread. That would make a pretty impressively odd sandwich."

"I think all pass. What else is there to do?"

_Damn_, Roy thought, _how many hints do I have to give?_ "Well…there's all sorts of stuff to do when your senses are all like….like, wow. Open. You know? I mean, stop being a Lieutenant for a minute."

"Yeah…it is pretty boring sometimes. So rigid, you know. So many rules. Uh, what were we talking about again that we got to this?"

Roy rolled his eyes. And felt quite dizzy.

* * *

**Later that day…**

"Hey, Falman, wake up man. I think I hear the Colonel's voice."

Falman jerked abruptly out of his doze and sat up on his desk. Just then, the door opened.

Fury glanced up and nonchalantly back down at his paperwork.

Breda stared. "Lieutenant Hawkeye? Didn't you go home?"

Hawkeye raised an eyebrow. Something about her eyes was strange. "I was out on an investigation all this morning with the Colonel. Didn't Fury tell you?"

"He said the Colonel was with Lieutenant Havoc."

"Well, that was the schedule originally, but Havoc came in and said he was taking a vacation day today."

"Wait, so…you've been out _all morning_?"

"Yes. You didn't notice?"

"And you and the Colonel are getting along fine then?" Breda pried.

"Of course. Not that it's any of your business."

_Damn_. "Then who the hell was in that office imitating your voice?"

Fury suddenly busted out laughing. Falman stared sleepily for a moment, and then began to snigger too.

Breda shot them both an un-amused look.

"I can't believe we had you going for that," Fury squeaked.

"Going for what?" Hawkeye asked.

"Some kind of prank, no doubt," Mustang told her, appearing in the doorway behind her. "Such slackers I have as subordinates, no?"

"Why the sunglasses, Colonel?" Falman asked.

"None of your beeswax."

"What were the two of you smoking?"

"I said it's none of your beeswax."

Breda's brain suddenly caught up to events. "And you're calling _us_ slackers?" he demanded.

"Well, we're your superiors, we have privileges," Mustang replied smarmily. He sidled up behind Hawkeye, grabbed her waist, and said something into her ear.

She immediately blushed.

So did Breda. "I have had _enough _of this," he grumbled.

"Yeah, but we haven't," Falman told him. "And that's really all that counts here. And you're outnumbered."

"You all suck, you know that? All of you."


End file.
